fullsoulahead.com

I’ve never killed anyone.

I’ve never assaulted anyone.

When I was a kid, I was a bit of a bully. Not anything long standing or physical, but I would scorn children I deemed weak.

Once when I was teaching a class at a community college when I was about 25, I once mocked a student very subtly, because he was annoying. I don’t think he even got it, but some of the class did. In retrospect, I think the kid ever so slightly might have been on the spectrum. I didn’t know how to teach a college class. I was a last minute ringer for the semester. He kept throwing me, interrupting with irrelevant information. I smiled at him sarcastically and said, “That’s nice.” A girl in the back laughed. I still feel bad about that.

In my early 20’s I skipped a friend’s wedding reception because I was having a panic attack. I got in my car and ripped off my too tight dress and got on the highway and headed out of town toward home. I didn’t fathom the fact that it might take some of the joy out of her day if I went missing. I’d done a reading at the wedding. I wasn’t just a distant guest. This was before cell phones and I couldn’t call and let her know I was okay.

Years later, against my better judgement, I agreed to a bachelorette party about a month before my wedding. And then I agreed to the party leaving the place we were, and showing up at the bar where Todd’s ex was sure to be that night. Once we got there I felt like shit. We didn’t stay long. But I went. I didn’t stop it.

I once fiercely accused a friend of being competitive with me and it hurt her deeply.

I’ve kicked myself a hundred times for admitting as a guest blogger on another site a few months back to being hurt that some of the people I hoped would support my book, didn’t. Like seriously kicked myself, like I’m the biggest loser ever for admitting I had any expectations or that I felt hurt.

I recently had to address an issue involving a teacher and my kids, and felt like I was the one who should apologize, just for stating my valid concerns. I addressed another issue at camp this week and am having the same feelings.

Today I caught a whiff that I had stepped on a friend’s toes. Didn’t mean to, but I can see how she might be offended looking at it from her point of view.

A little mis-step like that can send me reeling into all the ways I am a bad person.

I seriously could go on and on.

But I’ve never killed anyone.

I’ve never assaulted anyone.

There’s that.

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I’m turning off the comments on this one. Otherwise it just seems like I’m begging for a pep talk and then I’ll feel bad about that. I’ve thought what’s the point in even publishing this, but I think there is value in knowing we all go through it to some degree. I hope next time you are feeling “bad” you will remember what you would have said to me here, and instead, say it to you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go do the work to get myself out of this awful spiral. I’m going to take a breath, and start here.

HT and I watched the film Five Wishes recently. It is based on the book by Gay Hendricks and was featured in The Spiritual Cinema Circle in 2007.

In Five Wishes, a man has a poignant conversation with a stranger he meets at a party. The stranger asks him this question. “If you were on your death bed, and you felt your life had not been a success, what is the one thing that if you had done it differently would have made it a success?”

I’m not feeling ready to post my answers here, but wanted to share the question.

I dug around a bit and found the short film here if you are interested in watching it for free. This is the link to the book.

For me, it was a question worth pondering.

I’ve been fantacizing about cutting it all off and starting over. So I’m exploring different hair styles.

Here’s something fun.

Cosmopolitan’s virtual hairstyles.

This is Mary J. Blige me.

The hair of some other celebrity I don’t recognize…

When it changes your hair, it kind of morphs your face onto the person’s face. It’s weird.

I could go on all day.

But I won’t.

Riley, one day you’ll forgive your mother for many, many things, one of which will be putting Taylor Swift’s hair on your head, (in the photo of that day we decorated our faces with eye liner), and putting it on my blog. I know you will.

It’s what I cling to.

Him: Hey dog. How are you? I hope you are having a good morning.

Me: I’m fine. We’re having a good day. BTW, It’s dawg, not dog. If you call me “dog,” it just means you think I’m not pretty.

Him: Pardon me. I have no street cred. I think you are beautiful.

I’m glad we had this little exchange.

You, pressed up against my back, we’re spoons.

You breathe in and out, and it’s easier to focus on your breath than my own. I use it to go into the gap.

Napping in the afternoon on a Saturday.

You worked at 6AM and will be lost to us this evening if you don’t rest now.

This morning at 5:00, I came into the bathroom where you shaved, anxiety pressing down on my chest.

Doubts about my own goodness. That’s what it boiled down to. I spin, too empathetic, too worried. I can’t help everyone, can’t do it perfectly, can’t fix it all. I haven’t slept.

Shaving cream still in bits on your face, you take me in your arms and whisper “You are good.” You kiss the top of my head and say no one will ever be more loved than me.

I feel guilt and comfort and relief.

I never meant to need you this way.

After you leave. I do the work.  I write and write until I remember it’s not my job to fix a hurting world. I write until I remember to trust the wisdom of other souls.

When you get home, we put the kids in front of the TV and go into the bedroom. You need a nap. One hand holds my book, the other absent-mindedly strokes your arm as you fall asleep. Our window-unit blows cold air full blast. Finishing my chapter I close the book and snuggle into you.

It’s here I dive into your breath. Right now, I am here in your arms. Our children are downstairs, healthy.

A recent family conversation surfaces in my mind.

Riley asked, “How old was I when I lost my autism? Ten? Eleven?”

We were both taken aback and thrilled and charmed, though we played cool as cucumbers. She no longer identifies herself as on the spectrum. Imagine that?

In the next turn of conversation, Seth shared that when he sees someone hurting, he feels it physically in his body.

Me too, baby. We’re the same.

You’re breathing, and I look at our freshly painted bedroom walls and remember when I slept in a basement. There was pink insulation for walls and I nailed sheets to the two-by-four beams for privacy. The floor was cold concrete.

I close my eyes and focus on your breath, disappearing into it.

Believing in you, believing in us, believing I truly have everything.